


Sweet Pea

by myhamsterisademon



Series: The Dream Life [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, M/M, the au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: The one where d'Artagnan loses one member of his family, but gets three new ones





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely have absolutely no idea where this is going

The bookshop is almost too small to be actually called a bookshop. The front-door is old, almost antique, its beautiful, elaborately carved wood immediately attracts d’Artagnan’s eye.

He hangs there for a moment, staring at the rose-wood (he easily recognises it) and tracing the patterns with his fingers, feeling the sharp, uneven edges under his fingertips. A splinter digs its way in the soft flesh, poking him.

When he lifts his eyes, he notices that the man behind the counter is looking at him through the lattices, an eyebrow arched and on his face the exact representation of _“what the everloving fuck are you doing?”_

D’Artagnan feels himself flushing up and he firmly pushes the door, telling himself that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being mesmerised by a door. He nods at the man, who keeps observing him.

“Hi,” d’Artagnan says, unconsciously getting on the tip of his toes. “I’m looking for a book.”

“I figured that by myself,” the man says. He has a low, grave voice, with a light posh accent. Green eyes, ruffled hair, neatly trimmed beard and a bored, irritated expression.

D’Artagnan isn’t sure if he likes him.

“This book has got a title,” he points out, stuffing his hand in the back-pockets of his jeans, “it’s by Henri Bosco and it’s called _Malicroix_.”

“Right,” the man says, still not moving, still scanning d’Artagnan, who is growing more uncomfortable by the minute. He coughs lightly and lifts up his eyes, letting them wander on the beautiful, low ceiling of the bookshop.

He really likes this place, he thinks. It’s small, cosy, the shelves are full of old-smelling, rattled, consumed but beloved books. Everything is neat, organised; there’s not a single speck of dust and there’s a faint odour of flowers, so light d’Artagnan almost think he’s imagining it -- but he knows it’s there, because his father’s studio smelled the same way.

D’Artagnan feels his heart clench, in a way he’s starting to get used to, but it doesn’t make it less painful. On the contrary, the idea that, one day, he’ll be able to think of his father without ending up a miserable, sobbing, heartbroken mess on the floor of his kitchen, makes him only more forlorn and sad and tired.

The man has finally decided to move and swiftly walks past d’Artagnan towards the bookshelves, leaving him there in the middle of the shop.

D’Artagnan decides to distract himself. He will _not_ freak out in the middle of a bookshop, in front of a man who already seems to be judging him. So he keeps observing the place, while the assistant keeps scanning the shelves.

The pay-desk is crowded with potted plants (one of them seems an onion), little, half-broken trinkets, small statuettes which represent shepherds, animals and even what seems like a fat, incredibly ugly cherub. There is paper scattered on the desk; yellow post-its tainted with what seems like coffee (or worse). D’Artagnan can’t really see what’s written, but he’s 100% sure that at least one of them contains the words ‘u + me = <3’ and, three times underlined, ‘out of compost’. Another says something along the lines of ‘my tastes in literature may be horrible, but my tastes in men are wonderful ;) you look hot!!’. The handwriting is different, so the post-its come from two different persons.

D’Artagnan thinks that’s sweet, and that nobody’s ever sent him flirty post-its.

Suddenly he hears the man (whom he had forgotten and whom he is not eager to talk to) say something.

“What?” d’Artagnan says, turning to look at him. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

The other one arches an eyebrow, again, and d’Artagnan feels unnerved.

“Here,” the man says, stretching out his hand to show d’Artagnan a battered book. “I am afraid this one is the only copy we have left. The cover is ripped, as you can see, but I’ve checked, no pages are missing. You can always return it, of course.”

“Right,” he answers and automatically takes the book. He stares at it for a while, dimly aware of the anxious feeling that’s slowly surging up, blocking the breath in his lungs, making his eyes water. “Right,” he says again, and his voice breaks, so he clears his throat, letting out a sound that comes out more as a sob than as a cough. “Okay. I’ll -- I’ll buy it.”

“All right,” the man says, his voice filled with a curiosity he tries, but fails, to hide -- and something else that d’Artagnan, too lost in his grief, cannot recognise. “Cash?”

D’Artagnan just nods. He knows that, if he’ll talk, he’ll start crying and he _doesn’t_ want this to happen.

“All right,” the man says again, this time softly, painfully softly, and d’Artagnan knows he’s embarrassing himself by just standing there, hot tears now streaming on his face and what the fuck was he thinking, going and buying his father’s last book -- a book Alexandre d’Artagnan hasn’t finished reading and will never finish reading -- barely six days after the funeral? What was he thinking, for Christ's sake --

He brings a hand to his mouth and sobs into it, his heart breaking in his chest once more, and it hurts too _much_ to be actually real, and he wishes he could just curl up in a ball and cry his grief away, but _no_ , he _can’t_ , he has to lift his eyes and look at the seller -- who’s meanwhile babbling things like _'oh no, please do not cry, oh Jesus, do you need some water? Please don’t cry, Porthos come here there’s a kid sobbing!’_ \-- and pay for a book his father will never read again and then he’ll have to take the metro, go home, make dinner for only one in an empty kitchen supposed to be for two, not _one_ , and cry himself to sleep and then start it all over again tomorrow.

And it’s just _too much._

So he’s properly crying now, with the ugly sobbing and gagging and all, his hands covering his face, his shoulders and hands shaking, the world around him somehow dimmed and blurry, yet everything seems heightened at the same time. He absentmindedly registers the seller frantically moving about, he registers the feeling of the planks underneath his feet, he registers a new set of steps coming in, while the seller presumably goes to the newcomer and says something that d'Artagnan doesn’t hear, because he's too focused on clutching the book against his chest to care about what’s going on around him.

“Hey,” he hears someone says, so, _so_ softly, but he doesn’t open his eyes, “we’re gonna leave for a while, okay? You can stay ‘ere as long as you need to, we’re closin’ the shop so you can let it all out, okay?”

D’Artagnan nods, at first, but then frantically shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be alone, as much as he’s feeling mortified right now. He inhales, tries to calm himself down, and fails miserably, starts sobbing uncontrollably again.

“Okay,” the voice says again, “we’re stayin’ here, right. Uh, there’s a chair. Sit?”

D’Artagnan sits, still breathing erratically, but at least he can lift his eyes now, and face the consequences.

There’s a man crouching in front of him, while the one with the posh voice stares at them from behind the counter, looking terrified and somewhat appalled. D’Artagnan ignores him and sets to calm down.

_Breathe in._

The man in front of him is smiling.

_Breathe out._

But it’s a sad, comprehensive smile.

_Breathe in._

Not pitiful. It’s nice, for once, not to be pitied.

_Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in._

“Okay,” the man says, still talking quietly, “that’s good. In, out, that’s great, you’re doin’ great. I’m Porthos and that’s Athos. Don’t talk for now,” he says when d’Artagnan opens his mouth, “just in, out, in and out.”

_Breathe out, one last time._

“Okay,” d’Artagnan croaks, he coughs, his throat tingles painfully. “Uh. Okay.”

“That’s right,” Porthos says, still smiling, “just breathe, okay? Need a drink?”

“No,” he manages to utter, “uh, I’m okay. I think. I’ll be better. Sorry for bawling out in your shop, I… uh, I didn’t mean to. Won’t happen again.”

“It’s all right,” Porthos says, “you can come here and cry your eyes out whenever you want. That’s what bookshops are made for.”

Athos grumbles something that d’Artagnan, still kind of lost in his haze of tears, sore throat and now impending migraine, doesn’t get.

“Shut up, Athos,” Porthos says before turning back to look at d’Artagnan and smile to him. “Feeling better?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says and coughs again, groaning when his throat burns. “Uh, crap. I’ll feel better tomorrow, though. Thanks.”

“S’all right,” the other man says and pats his knee delicately.

D’Artagnan gets up, avoiding Athos’ gaze and brushes his pants, dusting off imaginary dirt.

“I think I should go,” he says and Athos opens his mouth to say something but Porthos shoots him a dirty look.

“Remember,” the man says, “you can come back whenever you like. One of us is always ‘ere.”

D'Artagnan doesn't know what's that supposed to mean, and why he would ever come back, considering that he will never outlive the shame of the past fifteen minutes, so he blinks and says:

“Uh. Yeah. I mean. Yes. All right.”

It's when he gets home and he's in front of the door and he's trying to get himself to _just_ _unlock it and get inside, for God's sake,_ that he remembers that he has, in fact, not paid for the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English isn't my first language, so if you see any mistakes please feel free to point them out to me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumas 100% knew what he was doing when he named Athos like that.

 

He didn't expect to be back at the bookshop, truth be told. He thought it would just be another of those places that you may enjoy going at, if they weren't spoiled by so many humiliating memories.

He doesn’t particularly mind it -- not being able to go there, that is. He hasn’t been there enough times to get truly attached to it. The only thing he regrets, a little bit, is Porthos, who was really nice to him and, pardon the French, quite hot.

But he feels too guilty about the book he has practically stolen, so that's why he opens the door -- part of him hopes he _will_ see Porthos again and part of him hopes he _won't_.

“Hi!” a chirping voice says from the counter and d'Artagnan’s already regretting the decision. _Nobody_ should be that gleeful so early in the morning. “Welcome! Can I help?”

The man at the counter, is pardon the French, quite hot as well, and for a second d’Artagnan’s brain stops working.

 _I am bisexual and weak_ , is the only thought that rings in his head.

“Uh,” d'Artagnan answers. “I think so.”

“Right. I'm Aramis. Are you looking for a book in particular?” he inquires, eyeing him up and down and, seemingly satisfied, smiles widely. There is a particular lightning in his look, as if the man knows how utterly _charming_ he is, with his perfectly ruffled hair, that almost looks like it’s from a spot of Lancôme, and his neatly trimmed beard.

“Actually, uh, I'm looking for Porthos. Or Athos. One of either,” d’Artagnan babbles.

“I'm afraid they're not here today,” Aramis answers, “that's why I _am_ replacing them.”

“Oh,” d'Artagnan says, flatly. “Well, I have to pay for this book,” he lifts it up, “and uh. So, yeah. I took it yesterday but, uhm, forgot to pay? And -- well, they let me go, but I felt horrible about not paying it so yeah, here -- here am I.”

“ _Oooh_ ,” Aramis says, drawing out the O for an unnecessarily long time, and d’Artagnan’s gut, for some unexplained reason, feels heavy. He’s been uncomfortable around the world for some time, now, tiptoeing along the edges, always unnerved -- but now, in this bookshop, he only knows he wants to bolt the fuck out. “You’re the kid who had kind of a melt down, right?”

And, all of a sudden, d’Artagnan gets _pissed_ . Not that he didn’t expect them to retell the story of the kid who freaked out in the middle of a bookshop at 2:30 PM, really, but still, he is _pissed,_ and his cheeks burn in anger and _shame_ and he can feel his heartbeat raising, slowly but steadily -- and why is he even _ashamed_ ? His dad _died_ , for fuck’s sake, he is entitled to not feeling _okay_ and he has no reason at _all_ to be ashamed of _having feelings_ and these things happen all the time -- and now he needs to leave, _now_ , because if he won’t leave, he’s going to say something he’ll regret, and then feel bad about it and he _really_ doesn’t want to feel bad because of a _fucking idiot_ who lacks the basic _fucking human decency_ of at least _pretending_ he’s minding his _own fucking business_.

“Yeah,” he utters through gritted teeth, fishing out his wallet and picking a random banknote from it, throwing it on the counter and staring right back at Aramis, scowling furiously, his blood thumping in his ears and he can feel his face getting hot, and Aramis, the _bastard_ , seems amused by d’Artagnan’s anger, something close to a smile lingering on his lips and oh, d’Artagnan was so wrong, he is absolutely _not_ handsome, he is an _asshole_ \-- “Keep the change,” he barks, hoping his voice is as firm and cold as it sounded in his mind, even when a deep part in him knows he is being utterly _pathetic_ , and Aramis knows it too, since he is properly smiling now.

D’Artagnan storms out the bookstore, overwhelmed by anger, shame (dammit) and, most of all, the inner knowledge that he just made a scene for nothing and the best way to escape the humiliation of it is by being absolutely, irrevocably over-dramatic. And d’Artagnan’s _really_ good at that.

He’ll never go back to that bookshop, which is a pity, he thinks dimly, still clutching the goddamn book in his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you need anything?” Constance asks, sweet and soft, her warm hand resting on top his own. “I haven’t heard from you in _so_ long, we were worried, Charles…”

Had it been any other person, d’Artagnan would have cringed at the mention of his name, would have recoiled and muttered something about it being absolutely ridiculous and about preferring to be called by his surname, really -- but this is _Constance_ and he knows she doesn’t do it to mock him or rile him up: it’s simply her way of showing love and affection, and it certainly isn’t the only nickname she’s called him, and he surely will not stop her from loving him: what he needs, at the moment, is all the love in world, even if he knows that it wouldn’t be able to replace to immense, incommensurable, unconditional love he lost barely two weeks ago.

His thoughts are drifting again, and he needs a tether, so he focuses on the warmth and comfortableness of Constance’s hand on top of his.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, his heart swelling with adoration for the woman in front of him and grief he still hasn’t gotten accustomed to. She smiles, leans in to kiss his cheek, and he may not be in love with her anymore, but he still would die for her, even now that she is eyeing him suspiciously, searching for signs of uneasiness. “I’m… as good as someone in my position can be. I mean --” he brings his hands to his face and scruffles the stubble there, he _really_ needs to shave -- “Gosh, I’m not okay but -- I’m not going to kill myself either, so I guess that’s okay.”

“Your standards for happiness are really quite low,” Anne, Constance’s fiancée, says, her delicate, white hands resting neatly folded on the coffee table, engagement ring catching the golden light of the afternoon. “But it is okay not being okay, too,” she adds a moment later, just as softly -- and d’Artagnan truly is thankful, so he tells her, and Anne smiles gently, brushing his cheek lightly.

“Will you call us, if you need anything?” Constance asks, and he nods.

“You know…” he starts, hesitates for a second, and then decided to get it off his chest once and for all. For some reason, he needs to talk about it, reassure himself that he really hadn’t overreacted, that day at the bookstore. “I kind of had a… well, not a freak out, but. It wasn’t a good day for me -- I mean, of course it wasn’t, how could it be --” Constance’s hold tightens for a second, and he knows what that means, so he breathes in deeply for a moment, keeping his eyes closed and trying to shut out the sounds of cars and passerbys, and when he opens his eyes again she is waiting. “I was in a bookshop,” he admits, cheeks burning again but this time he doesn’t care about being ashamed, because Constance is with him, “and I started crying. I had picked up one of Papa’s books, one of those he wanted to read but never… never could,” he chokes on the last word, for only a moment, and he knows his eyes are dimmed with tears. “I don’t -- I don’t know why I did it, I really don’t, I haven’t even opened it since the day, I haven’t even _touched_ it, I just -- I guess I just. I just needed to _do_ something, you know?”

“It’s _okay_ ,” she breathes softly, “Charlie, sweetheart, it’s okay. But tell me,” she says, something in her voice that makes him look up, “where was this bookshop, exactly?”

 

“ _Aramis_? I thought his name was _René!_ You only call him René!”

“It is!” she says, throwing her hands in the air while Anne, besides them, can’t contain her laughter. “He just prefers to go by his last name! He says it sounds mysterious and alluring, I just think it’s pretentious…”

“And _Athos?"_

“He’s _posh!_ It’s his second name. Apparently his ancestors used to be counts or something like that, and for some reason they named themselves after a Greek mountain where women aren’t allowed to go! And his family’s kept the tradition by calling him Olivier, except that he prefers Athos because he says, and I quote, ‘if someone is smart enough to recognise the name and realise that I’m gay without me having to tell, then it means that I have to marry them’. He’s an idiot and he doesn’t realise that it isn’t cool, just slightly misogynistic.”

“And _Porthos?_ ”

“What about _him_?” Constance grumbles. “He’s a _darling!"_

There is a moment’s silence, and then d’Artagnan sighs.

“Yeah, he really _is_ a darling,” he admits under his breath, and Anne giggles even more loudly. “How did you even _know_ about that?” he adds a moment later, referring to his first meeting with those she used to call in her stories of them, when d’Artagnan and her were dating, the Inseparables.

“They _told_ me about it. Porthos thought you looked very sweet, Athos thought you looked very lost.”

“I wasn’t lost,” d’Artagnan protests, lying blatantly, “I was just a little bit overwhelmed. And Athos can very well go thoroughly fuck himself.”

Constance laughs, patting his hand affectionately, and fishes out her phone from her bag, while Anne pushes to d’Artagnan her fiancée’s chocolate cake, untouched, because she knows he feels slightly betrayed, frustrated with himself and the worlds -- and the chocolate will _definitely_ help.

“Here,” Constance says after a couple of minutes, during which she’s been typing at the phone and he’s been shoving the cake down his throat before she realises he’s eaten all of it, “they owe you an apology. Are you free Thursday?”

D’Artagnan, baffled, gulps down the bite he’d been munching.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re invited to dinner. Porthos is cooking, Athos is bringing his finest wine. Aramis will say sorry. Also, Anne, fuck you, that cake was _mine._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he whispers, feeling a knot in his stomach, which he knows will probably last throughout the whole meal and ruin the evening. It’s not that he dreads company or friendly dinners, really, he is a people-person -- he just dreads  _ these  _ people in particular and two of them especially. 

Porthos he is fine with, he seemed sweet and warm and just  _ big,  _ which should be threatening or, at the very least, worrying, but considering how utterly  _ nice  _ he had been to d’Artagnan that day in the bookshop, he’s actually glad they get to meet again, so that he will have a chance to show Porthos that he is, in fact, a very balanced person, and not some weird guy who cries for nothing.

It’s Athos and Aramis he doesn’t want to see, the first because he seems a little bit too dry for his tastes, and the second for obvious reasons, even if Constance has reassured him times and times that they will behave and be decent to him. She also promised excellent food and interesting conversation, but is it really worth it?

“Really, Constance,” he adds, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his good jeans and getting on his tiptoes. “I think this isn’t a great idea, can’t we just go home? Tell them I got sick or run over by a car or something.” She ignores him, giggles at her phone. 

The lift pings, the doors open and he gets inside. Every step he takes is leading him nearer to this awful, terrible dinner, and he could very well simply. Stop. Walking -- but for reason he doesn’t, and when the lift pings again, he stops, for merely a second, his mind racing with opportunities --

“Do you like quiche?” Constance asks, distracted by her phone, as she steps out and walks towards a door.

Quiche? He  _ loves  _ quiche.

“Yeah,” he says, with a sigh, following her reluctantly but at least, there  _ will  _ be quiche.

It’s only when she’s rang the bell that he realises what she has done, from the smug grin on her face.

“There better  _ actually  _ be quiche,” he grumbles.

 

* * *

 

Porthos, d’Artagnan thinks, is probably the kindest human being he’s ever met. When he opened the door, a couple of minutes ago, he’d grinned at Constance and had engulfed her in the longest, probably most comfortable hug in the world. He’d whispered something at her ear, kissed her cheeks twice and she’d giggled, glowing with happiness, flushed with pleasure and d’Artagnan had been  _ stunned _ by how domestic this all was. And a little bit nostalgic, too. 

But then Porthos had turned to him, had shaken his hand affectionately, said something about being glad to see him, but he hadn’t hugged him, which d’Artagnan would have liked  _ immensely  _ but one can’t have everything, right? He had ushered them in, so now he is standing in the middle of the living room, while Constance, at ease as if that were her own home, twitters and flutters around.

Aramis and Athos aren’t there, yet, which is frankly a relief. He’s not ready to see them, not yet, and he just really wants some time to get used to this space. 

He looks around, takes in the living room -- and it seems just as cosy and familiar as the bookshop did. There’s post-its on the huge mirror beside the coathanger, most of them reading little compliments, book recommendations, some of them simply feature a heart, some others are down right flirty. So it’s a thing --  _ their  _ thing, d’Artagnan realises, and he wonders what these post-its really mean. 

The rest of the room is just as comfortable -- not too large but not too small either, with its cream-coloured walls, it’s deep-brown wooden library, a couple of books and some papers scattered on the coffee-table. It’s messy, not messy to the point of being dirty, but enough for it to be actually  _ living _ . D’Artagnan likes it, even though he doesn’t feel comfortable at all. Maybe it’s the company, maybe it’s the fact that he feels lost and alone, standing here in the middle of an empty living room while Constance and Porthos chatter and laugh in the other room.

“You can sit down, y’know?” D’Artagnan jumps, turns around and Porthos is leaning against the side of the door, holding a drink in each of his hands, smiling hugely, his eyes crinkling, and d’Artagnan notices only now, in the glowing light of the sun showering through the huge open windows of the balcony, a scar above his right eye. 

“Uh,” he says. 

“I think you should sit down. Constance’s helpin’ with the cookin’, so I thought I might stay ‘ere and keep you company while we wait for the others. She mentioned you like quiche, so I made three of them.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” d’Artagnan says.  _ Quiche _ . Right now, he might be a little bit in love with Porthos. “God, yeah. I mean -- yeah, I  _ like  _ quiche, thank you, that was really sweet of you,” his guest gestures towards the couch, so d’Artagnan lets himself sink in it. Porthos grins, and throws himself on the sofa in front of the couch. 

D’Artagnan expects the usual, lingering, embarrassed silence of two strangers being forced to socialise, and he dreads it almost as much as having to chit-chat the whole evening. There’s nothing he hates more than being awkward and, right now, every single part of his being tingles with nervousness, restlessness and a slight, aching worry that he might have made the biggest mistake of his life.

But, he finds out, Porthos is not this sort of man. He pushes one of the glasses into d’Artagnan’s hand, clinks them together and says  _ cheers  _ with a tip of his head and a kind smile.

“I think I owe you an apology,” he says, and d’Artagnan immediately shakes his head. Yes, he _was_ pissed, but certainly not at _Porthos_. He doesn’t think he could ever be pissed at Porthos. Not when he’s done him _three_ quiches. “Well, I think I do,” the man says anyways. 

“I don’t want to hear it, then,” d’Artagnan interrupts, “I really don’t. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about -- you were thoroughly decent from start to end, and I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness. I think everything is settled,” he adds a moment later, when Porthos says nothing.

His guest nods, a tight smile on his lips, and he takes a sip from his glass. Now there  _ is  _ silence and it  _ is  _ getting uncomfortable.

“I assume the book meant a great deal to you,” Porthos says, and oh God, d’Artagnan really doesn’t want to talk about  that _ ,  _ not when everything is going fine and a heavenly smell comes from the kitchen. 

“Yeah,” he says anyways, turning the glass in his hands, “Bosco was my dad’s favourite writer and… well, that book was the only one he never read, so… yeah. I don’t think buying it so soon after… well,  after, you know , was a good idea.”

Porthos hums, while d’Artagnan’s heart clenches, and for but a second -- but  _ oh _ , what an absolutely  _ heart-wrenching _ second -- he loses himself in his own thoughts again.

“Y’know,” the man says, slowly, as if watching what he is about to say, “I’ve never even heard of this bloke Bosco. I’m not much of a reader, so I guess that’s that, but if you ever do read it, I guess I’d like to know what it’s about. Athos reads a lot,” he adds, when d’Artagnan says nothing, still a little bit too overwhelmed, “you might ‘ave noticed the library.”

“Athos lives here?”

“So does Aramis,” Porthos answers, and d’Artagnan waits for him to say something, to give more details, but there is silence. 

“Oh,” he says, just to say something. It’s none of his business, really, but he is human, and humans are naturally curious, so  of course  he would like to know how  _ much _ , exactly, do they live together. After all, Constance mentioned that Athos is gay, and while this doesn’t  _ necessarily  _ mean anything, there definitely is leverage to  _ think  _ it means something.

If Porthos sees the question lingering in d’Artagnan’s eyes, he doesn’t answer, but the smile ghosting on his lips definitely gives d’Artagnan some suspicions. 

Not that he cares. 

Obviously.

About twenty minutes later, d’Artagnan is starting to feel more at ease. Porthos is  _ charming _ , really, he’s got this sort of warm, sweet, somewhat mischievous personality that, along with his huge, toothy grin, makes him into an angel for those he likes but, he soon discovers when he happens to mention Constance’s ex-husband, he can be pretty terrifying when he wants to.

Basically, d’Artagnan thinks (he might be a little bit tipsy, after two drinks), he’s like a teddy bear: cute in pictures, but easily lethal in real life. 

They’re eating quiches, meanwhile, and Constance has joined them, fluttering in, bringing the smell of cooking behind her and she looks radiant. Porthos tells her that she’s gorgeous, d’Artagnan agrees and kisses her cheek, while she giggles and steals the last piece of quiche right from his hand. He doesn’t mind, she definitely deserves it, and a lot more than that.

“Are they coming soon?” she asks, probably referring to Aramis and Athos.

“They should be ‘ere in five minutes or so,” Porthos answers. “You did all the cookin’, though. I thought  _ I  _ was supposed to.”

“You entertained d’Artagnan,” she says with a shrug. “I heard you were talking about Bonacieux, the bastard. Did you know that he still thinks I’m with Anne just to spite him? He hasn’t realised that the world, in fact, does not revolve around him.”

Porthos shakes his head, lips pursed, and a grimace of disgust on his face. 

“Are we here to talk about that shit or to enjoy the food I was supposed to cook?” he says then, voice grim and something of a growl in it. 

Constance strokes his arm tenderly, and d’Artagnan, somewhat confused, stares at her. She smiles her reassuring smile, the one she flashed at him whenever Bonacieux was in the room (just like now, even if he’s not  _ actually  _ here) and she says:

“It’s all right, dear.”

And, just at that moment, the doorbell rings and Aramis’ voice echoes in from the hallway. D'Artagnan feels his face go blank. God, just when he was starting to feel comfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

“Porthos says you read a lot,” d’Artagnan splutters, just to break the silence that’s filling the room since he and Athos have been left alone (it’s the second time that that happens, and he wonders if it’s all been staged -- him having to “get to know new people”, as Constance whispered to him before she abandoned him to go and “have a chit-chat with Aramis”).

“I do,” is the simple, dry answer, and after that there's another long, long minute of perfect silence.

Oh Jesus Christ. The man _could_ do an effort, d’Artagnan thinks.

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?”

Athos, inexplicably, smiles.

“Not at all. Do you read yourself?” he asks then and d’Artagnan nods while they walk together towards the furniture.

“More or less,” he answers. “I haven’t been reading much these past few days, but I used to. Mainly fantasy. Surely not those big classics and stuff,” he says with a scoff, and, to his surprise, Athos nods again. He expected him to be one of those self-righteous, up-tight, pretentious men who think a Dostoevsky is better than any other book, one of those thirty-something-year-olds who pretend to enjoy Kerouac or Fitzgerald just to be “diverse and unusual”.

Athos must have caught something of his thoughts in d’Artagnan’s expression, because he smiles.

“I find most classics overrated,” he explains in a drawl as they scan the library together. “I have read them, out of curiosity, but in terms of plot and writing style, I’d rather read all of Dan Brown’s books than touch a Hemingway ever again.”

D’Artagnan cackles. He feels the same.

“You’ve got all of Tolkien’s works,” he remarks, tracing them with his fingers. There’s also J. K. Rowling.

“I do. He’s a favourite, honestly.  _Harry Potter_ not that much, but my niece, Marie-Cessette, wants to read them to me so that she can 'practice', so I bought them.”

“That is _so_ sweet,” d’Artagnan says, a smile playing on his lips, almost unconsciously. It’s strange how easy it all is, to chit-chat and talk, while barely ten minutes ago he would rather have buried himself in the earth rather than talk to Athos. It’s probably his voice, he thinks. It’s warm and slightly rough, posh but not the uppity, snobbish posh; it’s nice to hear and it’s soothing, now that it isn’t pleading at him to stop crying. “I love children,” he continues, this time grinning properly. It’s true. He’s very good with kids, and Anne often leaves her son Louis with him. “I have three sisters myself, and sometimes I take care of Anne’s son -- I mean Constance’s fiancée’s son -- so I guess I must be pretty good with them.”

“I suppose so,” is the careful, slow answer. “Constance must trust you. She mentioned you used to date.”

They’re still standing by the library, and all of a sudden the room goes unnaturally cold and silent. Or, anyways, that’s how it feels to d’Artagnan. There was some sort of reproach, of anger, almost of diffidence in Athos’ last sentence -- and d’Artagnan can’t quite pinpoint what it means. Jealousy? Curiosity that he’s simply reading wrong? He doesn’t know, but he feels threatened, for some reason, and put in a corner. _God,_ why does he have to overthink and over-analyse _everything?_

“A long time ago,” he says, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I was nineteen, we dated for a couple of years, and then we broke up. Five years ago. I’m twenty-six now,” he adds, for clarity’s sake. “And no, I won’t add anything about it unless Constance says I can,” he says a second later, keeping his voice firm but courteous. He hopes Athos doesn’t think he’s trying to sound mysterious and alluring, it’s just that the things that happened between him and Constance are private, too private maybe, and he can’t just talk about them with a _complete stranger._

“Right. Sorry,” Athos then says. “For everything,” he adds a moment later, tilting his head to the right and staring right at d’Artagnan.

This latter nods his head, understanding that that is most likely the last time they’ll ever talk about this -- their rather awkward meeting at the library _and_ Constance’s history. He feels lighter, now, the tension in his gut and stomach gone, his shoulders slacked and his jaw isn’t tight anymore -- and Athos probably does too, because their eyes meet again and he smiles, soft and warm.

Suddenly, just when d’Artagnan is going to open his mouth, Aramis appears in their view, one glass in his hand and a grin on his face. Strangely, d’Artagnan doesn’t feel as stressed as he thought he would, at first. Aramis looks lovely, he really does, and if it weren’t for how rude to each other (because, in all sincerity, they’ve both been jerks, d’Artagnan included) they had been days ago, he would probably feel perfectly at ease.

“Wine?” he asks, offering d’Artagnan a glass. “It’s Athos’ best bottle.”

“Thank you, no,” he answers, “I’ve already had two drinks. And we haven’t eaten yet.”

Aramis turns his head to Athos, smiles at him sweetly (too sweetly, maybe, d’Artagnan thinks, his mind going back again to the question he never asked Porthos) and the other man stares at the glass for one second, hesitates and then shakes his head.

“Athos doesn’t drink,” Aramis says, when he catches their guest’s puzzled look, with a candid smile. His arm sneaks around Athos’ waist and he just stays there with them, in silence, one hand resting on Athos’ hip, watching d’Artagnan intently, something in his stare and his demeanour -- observing, silent, calculating -- that makes d’Artagnan’s mind click.

He realises that he has just been given the answer to that famous question: Athos sags, almost imperceptibly, against Aramis’ own body, a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes. And for a moment, for but a moment, d’Artagnan’s heart aches with desire for that same kind of comfortableness, that same mixture of love and friendship and tenderness -- the one he knows exists in almost every loving couple, the one he experienced himself and misses _so_ much. He’s been lonely for but two weeks, now, but it feels like eternity. It is only a second, but it seems to last a century -- the envy and jealousy and _guilt._

D’Artagnan is used to affection, really, having been surrounded by love for as long as he can remember -- but that doesn’t mean it will ever be enough. He has always had a yearning for it, a need for love that stems from his father being so open, so affectionate about it. Once you get used to something, it is hard to let go of it. So his heart aches, both in jealousy and remorse, shame for his ingratitude -- for how can he want love when he has got so much of it already, with Constance and Anne and his sisters and his friends?

“I shall go and help them set the table,” Athos suddenly says, when the silence is too heavy between them, only broken by the clinks and clatters of Constance and Porthos carrying plates and cutlery and bottles. He extricates himself from Aramis’ hold, brushes his back as he moves and smiles at him, much sweeter than he has been before. He leaves, silently and wisely, and d’Artagnan breathes in.

“Sorry,” he suddenly says, realising how awkward and weird and rude and downright creepy he must have been, ogling at them like they are some weird kind of creature. “I just --” he stops, as Aramis eyes him suspiciously, almost accusingly, and what the everloving _fuck_ is going on? “I got stuck for a moment. I tend to do this, these days.”

“Yeah?”

D’Artagnan clears his throat. He knows he should explain himself, and _quickly,_ because Aramis is starting to look slightly intimidating and threatening. Not particularly violent, but he does seem ready to kick d’Artagnan’s ass if he were to say something offensive.

“Look,” he says, opting for the _be-sincere-even-too-sincere_ card, “I, uh -- I recently lost someone very close to me. My dad, to be precise. So, uh, I tend to space out, sometimes? I get overwhelmed, we could say, and _that’s_ why I was staring like that -- not because I’m a creep or an asshole, I mean, I would be the _last_ person to be that, considering that I’m bisexual -- it’s just that sometimes things and feelings get too much. I miss him a _lot_ _,_ so whenever someone is lovely with me I just remember my dad and well -- it happens with Constance too, you know when you feel too much for no reason at all? And I just --”

“Okay,” Aramis suddenly says, and d’Artagnan breathes in. And then breathes out.

Oh. He was rambling. Again.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s _okay,_ ” Aramis answers, resting his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders. It’s good. It grounds him. “Do you mind?” he then asks, and d’Artagnan shakes his head, he starts rubbing his hands up and down, stopping for a second mid-length, where his elbows are, and then going up again. “It’s okay. I had figured that much by myself, and Constance briefly mentioned it --” he keeps rubbing and d’Artagnan keeps breathing in and out, “actually, _I_ was supposed to apologise for being so… thoughtless and insensitive, the other day. I should have figured that you wouldn’t want to be reminded about your encounter with Athos and Porthos, but sometimes I’m stupid and say things without thinking. I hope I’m forgiven. I really didn’t mean to hurt you more than you already are.”

He stills his hands.

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan breathes out. “I freaked out again, didn’t I? _Ridiculous_.”

“You’re _grieving,_ ” is the soft, gasped-out retort and when he looks up, Aramis smiles at him, sweetly and softly and understanding. He takes his hands and squeezes them lightly.

And suddenly, Porthos’ voice resounds in the room, his head poking from the dining room.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says, and then frowns. “Everythin’ alright?” he asks, taking a step forward and then stilling when Aramis answers.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“I just got a little overwhelmed,” d’Artagnan adds, for clarity, although from Porthos’ befuddled look he probably just confused him more.

“Ah,” the other man says, but doesn’t ask anything else. “Well, dinner’s ready. We made couscous and a bunch of other things. I hope you’re hungry.”

 _“Starving,_ ” Aramis says, stalking towards the other room, d’Artagnan in tow. “Thank you, my love. The smell is _heavenly._ ”

Only when they’re inside the room does d’Artagnan realise that they are, in fact, still holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I wanted Aramis and d'Artagnan's encounter to be all awkward and angry and I just wanted d'Art to be pissed off and bitchy but instead I ended up writing fluff?  
> Yeah. Yeah, that's how little control I have over my own goddamn story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely have no idea if this chapter is worth publishing because of course I didn't proof-read it (and yes I absolutely did leave you guys on a cliffhanger, sorry) but it's been sitting in my folder for a week, so here it is.

“How was the dinner date?” Inès asks, her voice crackling over the phone. There’s sounds of pots and chairs being moved, children squeaking and arguing.

D’Artagnan smiles, reveling in the sounds of family and noise and _company_ \-- so different from his apartment that is always so silent, now that his dad is gone.

“It wasn’t a _dinner date_ ,” he protests, “you make it sound like a gallant rendez-vous! It was just Constance inviting me to a normal dinner with her friends, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” is the sarcastic answer, “a normal dinner date with her three gay friends who all live together in a polyamorous relationship.”

“First of all,” he answers loudly, getting on the bed in a seated position, the same he used to take whenever he had a discussion with one of his sisters (none of them are here, but it’s a reflex he’ll never get rid of), “you don’t know whether they’re _gay_ or bisexual or any other sexual orientation. Second, just because they all love each other doesn’t _necessarily mean_ they want a _fourth_ person in their lives.”

She scoffs, and he breathes in deeply, and then exhales, sensing the horrible, heart-wrenching, nauseous feeling of anger raising up in his gut. He knows she’s riling him up, provoking him in order to get a reaction out of him, so that she can lash out at him and have a reason to hate and cry and forget about the grief and sadness that’s been poisoning all their lives (his life and his sisters’). So he shuts up and just sighs, knowing that Inès is just as tired as him, worn out by grief and heartbreak.

“How are the children?” he asks, referring to his nephew and niece -- Inès is ten years older than him, with a family and kids. Sometimes he feels left out of her life, but then she’s the sister he’s the least close with, so it makes sense. She’s so much like their mother, too much maybe, and, since their mom died, she has always had the conviction that it is her absolute duty to take care of them -- which is why they all argue a lot with her.

“They’re good,” is the flat, dry answer. “You know, growing, asking questions… They want to know where Grandpapa is,” she says. Her voice doesn’t break, but d’Artagnan knows her heart does, because he can feel his own cracking in his chest.

“And what did you tell them?” he asks, his voice trembling with tears and thick with sorrow.

She sighs. She doesn’t answer, and after awhile they bid each other goodbye. They don’t have much to tell each other, after all.

 

* * *

 

“What you doin’?” Porthos asks from the phone, his voice cheerful, light and reassuring, so different from Inès’. “I thought you’d go to uni, today.”

They’ve been messaging and speaking over the phone for almost three weeks, now, Porthos and him. Sometimes it’s Aramis using Porthos’ phone, sometimes even Athos, but d’Artagnan can always tell which one is which (he knows from the writing style; Aramis almost never uses abbreviations, Porthos is terrible at punctuation and Athos always uses the computer). He feels exhausted, and would rather curl up in bed, cry a bit and fall asleep -- but he knows that, later, he’ll be happy to have made the effort of actually having a conversation. It’s always like this -- he starts grouchy and unwilling to socialise and then he gets sad when the conversation ends.

“Just tired,” he says, sincere. “I didn’t feel like going, honestly.”

“So what are you doin’?” Porthos asks again.

“Just laying on the bed. I spoke to my sister, Inès, and I started reading that book Athos and you gave me. Not _Malicroix_ , the other one,” he specifies. “ _The Alienist._ I was disappointed not to find any post-its in it,” he adds referring to the little, light-hearted messages he keeps finding in books lent from Porthos or Aramis. Some of them are even heart-shaped. D’Artagnan finds this habit unbearably sweet, and sometimes he accepts the book just to see them, even if he has no intention of reading it. They make his day, but sometimes he finds himself asking what, exactly, the post-its _mean_.  

“Aw, you sweet. We’ll put five of them in the next book, happy? Are you likin’ it?” Porthos asks, and there’s a loud sound of crashing, followed by a stream of the _filthies_ curses d’Artagnan has ever heard. “Ops. Sorry. That was Athos, by the way.”

D’Artagnan cackles, the mere idea of _Athos_ , dignified, posh, well-bred Athos swearing like a fisherman is absolutely hilarious to him.

“Are you sure it was actually Athos? It seems that he’s been possessed by a stevedore,” he says, chuckling, while Porthos shouts something at his boyfriend.

“What?” the other man says, sounding distracted. “Sorry, it’s the cats. What were you sayin’?”

“Nothing. What about the cats?”

“It’s our neighbour, her cats keep sneakin’ in the house from the window that Athos insists on keeping open --” his voice raises and Athos shouts him a curse, then, after a moment of silence, apologises and says that he didn’t mean it. D’Artagnan laughs heartily. “Athos thinks he’s allergic, so now he’s tryin’ to get them out,” Porthos explains, laughter in his voice.

“Aren’t you going to help him?”

“Nah,” Porthos answers simply. “He’s grouchy and in a bad mood. I’ve been avoidin’ him all day ‘cause I accidentally burnt his toast and now he won’t let me kiss him. Besides, I’d rather talk to you. I haven’t ‘eard from you for a while, sweet. How you holdin’ up?”

D’Artagnan’s heart, for some reason, flutters. He doesn’t know whether it’s the nickname (he’s always been weak for nicknames, and that’s why he doesn’t really mind when Constance calls him Charlie or Charlot or any other pet-name) or the fact that Porthos does, in fact, seem to genuinely _care_ about him.

“I’m good,” he says, half truthfully and half lying. He isn’t _bad_ , so he’s not really lying, is he? It’s been little over a month since his father’s death, and the pain, the ache is still fresh, still heart-wrenching, especially now that he’s just heard from his sister, but it’s getting better. The thing is, d’Artagnan doesn’t want it to get better. He doesn’t want to stop missing his father. “I got the Very Special Hidden Post-It, by the way,” he says, throwing a glance at the bright pink post-it that he’s sticked on his desk along the others. The paper reads _‘dinner?’_ followed by a teeny, tiny, hesitant, wobbly heart. It’s amongst d’Artagnan’s most treasured possessions. “Very sneaky. I didn’t think about looking under the paper cover. Was it Aramis? Or you?”

Porthos’ laughter grumbles from the phone, and d’Artagnan can just _imagine_ the huge, toothy grin that’s surely spreading on his face. It warms his heart, as well as Porthos’ next words, for _some reason:_

“Athos, actually,” he says, while this latter’s incomprehensible words echo even through the phone, “he wanted to see you again but was too shy to ask for it. Athos is terrible at these kinds of things, especially if he likes the other person.”

There’s a silence, Porthos is breathing slowly and d’Artagnan’s heartbeat, for _some reason_ , has sped up -- maybe it’s Porthos’ tone of voice, calm but fond and loving, or maybe it’s his words and he probably just _should ask_ . It wouldn’t be awkward, he knows Porthos enough to be sure of that, and he just should _say_ something, instead of letting his brain whirl around conjectures and _what-ifs_ and, especially, he _absolutely_ should _not_ let it wander to what his sister said about the dinner date, which _wasn’t_ a dinner date, was it?

“So he likes me?” d’Artagnan asks before he changes his mind. His heart speeds up again, higher, and he has to sit up on the bed before he gets dizzy.

There’s a silence, again, and then Porthos speaks, fond and soft and warm, and he almost sounds surprised and endeared.

“We all do, d’Artagnan.”  


* * *

 

 

“So you’re going on a _date?”_ Constance says, while Anne hums approvingly. The Skype image is slightly grainy, but he still can see the way Anne stares at the screen, while her hands are busy braiding Constance’s hair. Her expression is open and warm, soft, almost satisfied -- as if she knows he will be in good hands. It’ amazing, he thinks, how easy it is to read her thoughts. But he knows it is a privilege, a benefit acquired thanks to Constance and her blinding faith in him -- if it weren’t for that, Anne would be courteous and generally civil, but he could never _know_ her or see how truly sweet, caring she is, a ray of sunshine that brightens Constance’s day. She always seems so happy with Anne, much happier than she had been with Bonacieux or, d’Artagnan sometimes thinks in his worst moments, than when she had been with him.

He looks at her, frowns, but he has no need to ask, because she says, in her simple, genuine manner:

“I’m glad you are going out with them. Aramis is a good man.”

“I know he is. They all are,” he says, hesitantly, “I’m just… confused, I suppose. And it’s not a date. I’m pretty certain we’re just having _dinner_.”

“If you’re so sure about it, why are you confused?” Anne asks, in that special way she has -- asking questions that seem simple but are, in fact, so hard to give an answer to. It probably stems from being a politician’s wife for so many years or, as Constance always says, being the politician _and_ the wife. Anne is terrifying.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not so sure about many things in my life. It just seems too good to be true. And them being so nice to me is just as confusing.”

“They’re nice to _everybody_.”

“They’re especially nice to _me_ ,” he corrects. “Well. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t true. I’m not that special, am I? But Aramis flirted with me at the bookshop, last time --”

Anne smiles, and Constance gasps.

“Of _course_ he would do that, the little shit!” she exclaims. “Oh Charlot, don’t worry -- he’s being a _tease._  He _likes_ you, he genuinely does, but he thinks it’s funny to see you all flustered and bothered. What happened?”

D’Artagnan’s mind goes back to that day at the library and he groans, remembering how awkward and embarrassing it had been.


	6. Chapter 6

He had gone to the library, about two weeks later after the dinner because, he had told himself, it would be the nice thing to do when someone invites you to eat and even does your favourite dish. He also had the intention of actually _buying_ a book, this time, but that too was an excuse d’Artagnan had made up to himself just so he didn’t have to admit that he simply wanted to talk, or even just see, one of the three men -- and the worse thing was, he knew it _himself_.

So he had pushed the door, registering the dingle of the copper bell, taking in again the soft smell of old books, the light filtering in through the curtains. Nobody was at the desk, but Aramis’ voice had come from the other room, the one Porthos had barged from the day they had met.

“I’m coming! Just a moment, please!” he had shouted.

“Take your time!” d’Artagnan had yelled back, and only then he had noticed that his heart was actually _hammering_ in his chest. He didn’t like this feeling -- unsure and stressed out but also glad to be there. It was _confusing_.

“ _D’Artagnan?_  Is that _you_ _?”_ Aramis had shouted again, and d’Artagnan could distinguish actual _glee_ and happiness in his tone. Before he could answer, there had been a loud, scraping noise and Aramis had appeared in all his charm and beauty, his hair framing his face, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Hi,” d’Artagnan had said, voice suddenly hoarse. The only thought in his brain was, at the moment, _‘oh no hot’_.

“Hi,” Aramis had answered, and from the way his smile had widened, d’Artagnan had understood that the man was _perfectly_ aware of the effect his looks had. “How are you doing?” he had said, getting nearer d’Artagnan and kissing his cheeks, taking his hands and holding them in his own, looking him up and down. “You look wonderful.”

“Uh,” d’Artagnan had answered, his skin tingling where Aramis had touched him. _Oh shit,_ he had thought.  _Shit fuck shit. Goddamn it._ “I’m good, thank you,” he had blabbered, suddenly flustered. “And, uh, you look… good too.” He looked more than good, d’Artagnan had thought, but he didn’t think going on a rant about how wonderful his eyes were when lightened by the afternoon’s sun would be a good idea.

“Why, thank you!” Aramis had answered, grinning like the little shit he was, and _still_ holding his hands. “The others aren’t here, I’m afraid,” he had said, “Athos is babysitting Marie-Cessette, our niece, and Porthos is helping his godfather -- his name is Tréville, I think we told you about him? He’s helping him with some paperwork. So we’re all alone, just the two of us,” he had added, his smile and his eyes gaining _another_ meaning that d’Artagnan could not decipher, but that _definitely_ had sent him in a flutter.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he had thought again.

“Come,” Aramis had said, “let’s go in the other room and have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“Uh. Yes, please.”

So they had gone to the other room (which was a tiny kitchenette with no furniture but for one couch and a large coffee table, crowded with papers, the usual flirty post-its and potted plants), Aramis never letting go of his hands, and they had sat down on the couch.

Aramis had shifted close to him, _dangerously_ close, and had laid back, one of his knees casually bumping against d’Artagnan’s. He had sighed contentedly and then had smiled at him, a different smile this time -- sweeter and inviting.

“Tell me about your week,” he had said.

“It was fine,” d’Artagnan had said. “I studied. Busied myself. You know, the usual stuff. And I started reading the book you guys gave me,” he had said. He had taken a breath. “And I saw the post-it.” The slightly-but-not-overly-flirty post it. The post it that read _‘dinner was good! hope to see you again soon. i’ve got tons of other books to recommend ;)’_ followed by a phone number and an Instagram URL.

Aramis had laughed out loud, bringing one of his arms around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and pulling him down with him, their knees bumping again. His hands had trailed to the nape of his neck, brushing for just a second through the short hair, and then it had come back to resting between his shoulder blades, pressing for a moment.

“Yeah, that’s a thing between Athos, Porthos and I,” he had explained. “That’s how I asked them out the first time.” D’Artagnan’s heart had skipped a beat, while Aramis’ hand started travelling from d’Artagnan’s shoulders to a little lower on his back, and then had rested there, imperceptibly moving from time to time. D’Artagnan’s skin had prickled again, and he had found himself jumping against the contact, even though their skins were separated by two layers of fabric. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he had thought again. _What the fuck was happening?_

Aramis had smiled that wicked smile of him, _fuck_ , d’Artagnan _really_ needed to learn to be more subtle.

“So, uh,” he had said, trying to change the subject, suddenly unable to flirt back but also somewhat _unwilling_ to stop Aramis from flirting. Because _that_ was flirting, wasn’t it? “You promised me tea?”

“Oh!” Aramis had said, faking a surprised and contrite tone. “I just realised -- I’m afraid we do not have tea. Athos drank it all. Sorry --” and his hand had shifted again, settling on the middle of d’Artagnan’s back and circling a little there -- “Can I make it up to you? By recommending books, maybe?”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

 

* * *

 

There is a long, long silence, during which Constance just stares at him blankly, and Anne is failing to suppress an amused smile from her lips.

“Really?” Constance says then, exasperated. _“Really?”_

“Don’t be mean to him,” Anne says, pulling oh-so-delicately on her hair and then ducking down to kiss her head. “Aramis has that effect on everybody. He is quite the charmer.”

“I hope he doesn’t think I was uncomfortable,” d’Artagnan says, thinking out loud. “I quite liked it.”

Constance raises an eyebrow and Anne chuckles. D’Artagnan stares at them, and then realises.

“That’s not what I _meant!”_ he protests vehemently. “They are nice, and I really like them! As… as acquaintances. That’s all!”

Constance sighs, shaking her head, and then asks:

“So, what about the dinner? Did you say yes?”

“Yeah, of course I did!” D’Artagnan answers. “What else would you have me do?”

“You really are head-over-heels for them, aren’t you?” Constance snorts, but sweet and fond.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Anne murmurs, and d’Artagnan can’t help but agree, despite what he vehemently affirmed just barely two minutes ago.

He _really_ does like them. And not just because he hasn’t dated in while and he misses the intimacy, both physical and emotional; not just because he’s mourning and therefore feeling lonely -- there’s something so open and comfortable and wonderfully sweet about them. He knows they all trust each other blindly, he’s felt it, he’s _seen_ it. They aren’t simply three people who happen to sleep with each other: there’s banter, and arguments, and inside jokes that he wishes so _badly_ he could share, there’s pet-names and love and affection. In short, they are exactly what he is used to, with his sisters, and exactly what he needs. What he feels could make him happy.

And the fact that the three of them are _really_ quite hot definitely helps.

So yeah, he _is_ head-over-heels for them. He just isn't ready to admit it to Constance, yet.

 

* * *

 

“So what time for the date?” Athos asks from Porthos’ phone. D’Artagnan wonders whether he’s dreaming or whether there _is_ something that suspiciously sounds like excitement in his voice.

“It’s a _date?”_ d’Artagnan says.

There’s silence, short silence, and then Athos speaks again, sounding slightly amused.

““I mean -- yes? We _like_ you, d’Artagnan. I thought Aramis had made that quite clear, last week at the library,” he says, and from the other side of the line d’Artagnan can hear someone cackle.

“Am I on speaker?” he asks.

“Yep,” Porthos replies instead, and d’Artagnan can practically hear the grin in his voice. “It’s definitely a date, sweet. With flowers and candles an’ all the shit.”

“Was this premeditated?” d’Artagnan asks again, for some reason offended. He feels like he’s been played with, like none of this is genuine. He knows them too well to fully believe his overthinking brain, though, but he can’t help but ask. He just needs to be _sure_ that he isn’t fooling himself. “Did you plan all this? The post-it, the flirting?”

“Of _course_ not,” Athos says quickly, his voice mortified and worried, “we would _not_. But you _know_ Aramis.You know how he is,” he adds, with what sounds like fond frustration. “We have not premeditated this, in the sense that we are not trying to trap you,” he explains. “But we have discussed it at length, of course. And we’re good. The three of us, I mean. We're good with... this being a date. An _actual_ date."

D’Artagnan is getting a little bit overwhelmed now, panic almost overcoming him, and now he’s not so sure the date it as good an idea as he thought. His heart beats, fast, too fast -- it thumps in time with his thoughts. He doesn’t _really_ know why, but he feels it’s a tad too much, and despite Constance's reassurances -- he can't help but be a little bit scared. Of what, he doesn't know, but his body and heart tell him to just _go for it,_ there is nothing to lose, and he _wants_ it -- but his brain screams to slow down. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks. “Are you overthinkin’ again?”

“I might be,” d’Artagnan says, breathlessly.

“Right. How about you take some time to calm down a bit, think about all this, and then we’ll talk again?”

“Not sure it’s a good idea,” he says, taking in a deep, deep breath. “I’m going to be fine.”

“It doesn’t  _have_ to be a date,” Athos says a second later, and Porthos hums in turn, “not if you do _not_ want it to be. We’re not forcing you, d’Artagnan, and I understand that this might seem a little bit too much, and we can take things as slow as you need. It can be just three people wanting to get to know you. We can even ask Constance or Anne to come, if that could help you. It doesn't _have_ to be a date,” he says again.

“I know.”

“We never sought to make you uncomfortable,” Athos says, softly, a moment later, and d’Artagnan breathes out, his heart slowly steadying to a calmer rythm.

“I know that, too.”

“Good,” Athos says. “That’s good.”

“I _want_ it to be a date, though. I think I do. I do want it."

Porthos chuckles again.

“Will you be here, Porthos?” d’Artagnan asks, half hopeful and half afraid, still a little bit panicky but calmer now.  

“Again, not if you don’t want me to, sweet.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. Yes, okay. Of course I’d like you to be here. Aramis, too. If he wants, that is. I mean he probably does want, considering his behaviour last time, but -- you know. I might be just imagining things --”

“You’re rambling again,” Athos interrupts, in a kind way. He sounds amused. D’Artagnan breathes in, deeply.

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit confused. And somewhat excited about this,” he admits, oddly sincere. He’s never been this open about himself with someone who isn’t Constance, and this speaks lengths about his feelings for the three men. “This is all very… unusual.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Porthos voice rumbles, warm and comforting. “You gonna be fine, yeah?”

“Yep. Definitely. One hundred percent. Sorry for almost freaking out.”

“It’s all right, sweet. And if you wanna cancel, just say so. We won’t get mad, I promise. Athos never even showed up to our first date.”

“Porthos, shut the _fuck_ up.”


	7. Chapter 7

He’s nervous, of course. Not as nervous as he expected, but definitely fidgety. The fact that this is an actual date -- as in, _‘we are interested in you’_ date -- is both comforting and terrifying.

It’s comforting because at least he won’t have to be doubtful, to titter on the edge, he won’t be in that awful, confusing grey _‘I really like you but I am not sure you like me back’_ area. There’s clarity, now that all the cards have been laid on the table, now that he knows that if he happens to ogle Aramis’ butt for longer than necessary, it won’t be bad.

It’s also terrifying because there’s _three of them._ Literally three different people, three different persons with different characters, habits, _desires_ and the three of them, apparently, like him as much as _he_ likes them -- which is hard to believe, truth be told.

He _does_ like them. He _really_ does. Immensely.

But the thing is -- he’s afraid, he’s terrified, of breaking that harmony they seem to have created around each other -- three persons, so wildly different, and yet so completely relaxed, so blindly trusting of each other that d’Artagnan is afraid he might, by inadvertence, by a wrong step, by doing something he shouldn’t, shatter it. And not simply because of a selfish desire to be with all of them at the same time, not simply because his aching heart yearns to belong with them; but also because, staring at them manoeuvre and interact with each other, is a marvelous sight: even now, as Athos and Porthos cook, their hands fleetingly touching each other, or lingering on a hip as they navigate around each other, with the occasional kiss and murmured endearment, d’Artagnan is content just watching, reveling in the happiness and domesticity that seeps from them.

“You alright?” Porthos asks, smiling at him, from where he’s stirring pots. “C’me here and try this,” he adds when d’Artagnan has nodded, “it’s a special recipe.”

D’Artagnan gets up from the chair, eager, and approaches him.

“It’s good,” he manages to mutter once the wooden spoon is in his mouth. “Mmf. Myeah. It’s really, really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep,” he declares, taking the spoon in hand and scooping up another mouthful of whatever that sauce is. “I’m starving,” he adds with a grin, his anxiety now forgotten as Porthos beams back at him, as Porthos ducks down to kiss him on the cheek, one of his hands going to rest on his hip.

“Good,” Athos drawls, and when d’Artagnan turns to look at him, there’s a curious light in his eyes. “It’s almost ready,” he explains, “and Aramis is almost here.”

D’Artagnan smiles, too distracted by Porthos’ hand on his hip, and then Athos tilts his head to the right.

“Do I get a kiss, too?” he says, and d’Artagnan blushes up deep, blood heating his face while Porthos laughs quietly.

Athos huffs, looking amused, and then he takes d’Artagnan’s hand, delicately dragging him to where he’s resting against the counter, and d’Artagnan goes, pliant and willing.

Except that, instead of kissing his cheek like Porthos did, Athos goes right for the lips, holding d’Artagnan’s jaws with both hands -- delicate and his fingers barely touching the skin, but enough to make d’Artagnan’s whole body tingle. It isn’t much the kiss itself -- soft and warm, lips brushing against each other, barely the hint of tongue -- that makes d’Artagnan’s head spin and makes his knees so weak he has to get a hold a Athos’ sides to stop himself from toppling down -- it’s the feeling of those hands against his skin, the thumb brushing the cheekbones, unbearably sweet and comforting, taking a hold of him and keeping him grounded while Athos moves his lips against his.

When they separate, d’Artagnan has to blink a couple of times before his eyes gain focus again. Athos, in front of him, looks just as lost and confused.

“Oh,” is all he can say.

As a response, d’Artagnan ducks forward to kiss him again, light and brief, barely a peck on the lips, and then he hears Porthos chuckling.

“Aw, look at you two,” he says, and d’Artagnan turns around to stare at him. He’s still holding the spoon, and there’s a loving, sweet smile on his lips. “Good?”

“Yep,” d’Artagnan answers, throat tight and voice hoarse. It was more than good.

“Better than my stew?”

“Almost,” is the reply , and Athos laughs, going up to where Porthos is standing and drawing him down for a kiss. They smile against each other’s lips, Porthos mouthing something that d’Artagnan doesn’t get, but based from Athos’ shining eyes, it must be tender and loving, as always.

And then the door opens, and Aramis is suddenly inside, bringing in his usual buzz and frenzy, so distant and different from the quiet comfortableness that was settling in, but just as welcome. He swoops in for an enthusiastic kiss from both his boyfriends and, bless him, actually dips Athos. He tries the same with Porthos, but ends up on the floor, laughing like a child.

“Warned you not to try that,” Porthos chides him, and Aramis simply grins up at d’Artagnan, still sprawled on the pavement. Athos shakes his head and goes to the living room.

“Help me up?” Aramis asks, and instead, d’Artagnan sits down with him. Aramis, unfazed, smiles, and rests his head on his knees.

“You’re in the way, both of you,” Porthos warns, but does nothing to move them. “How was your day?”

“Tiring, but fun,” Aramis answers. D’Artagnan’s fingers start carding through his hair, and Aramis sighs, whole body sagging. “And now it’s gotten better,” he murmurs and Porthos shakes his head, a fond, exasperated smile spreading on his lips.

“What about yours, sweet?”

“Good,” d’Artagnan simply says, mesmerised by the feeling of Aramis’ hair and still thinking about Athos’ lips against his own. He already misses the feeling. “Food smells good.”

“Doesn’t it? Porthos is _excellent_ at cooking.”

“Yeah? Then get up and set the table, you two, so we can finally eat. D’Artagnan’s starvin’, and I’d bet that so are you, love,” Porthos says, kicking them gently and waving the wooden spoon in the air.

 

* * *

 

They’re finally eating, now, not at the large, dinner table they used last time with Constance, but two of them on the couch, the other two sitting on large cushions on the floor, the food splayed in front of them on the low coffee-table.

“This is much, much better than I expected,” d’Artagnan says, munching on the homemade bread and eyeing the untouched quiche jealously. Aramis smiles at him, and follows his stare. He grins, wickedly, and his hand goes for the still-fuming dish. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” d’Artagnan warns, and he would gladly reach out to take the plate and keep it out of the way, if it weren’t for Athos’ arm around his side blocking him.

“I didn’t know you were so possessive,” Aramis says, a wicked grin on his lips and the same tone of voice he’d used to tease the fuck out of d’Artagnan at the bookshop. “It’s just a _quiche_ , darling.”

Athos groans loudly, and, before d’Artagnan can retort that Porthos’ quiches aren’t _‘just_ ’ quiches, he’s kissing him again.

Aramis squeals a surprised _‘oh’_ , Porthos sighs, somewhat dreamily, as far as d’Artagnan can tell, what with Athos’ lips on his and his tongue sliding in his mouth, for barely a second, but enough to make his body scorching hot.

“What was that for?” d’Artagnan croaks, once he can talk.

“To distract you,” Athos merely answers before filling his mouth with cold rice and a stuffed egg.

“It’s worked, apparently,” Porthos comments off-handendly, grinning at him, “your cheeks are flushed. It’s very endearin’.”

“Aw, you babes,” Aramis squeals, before moving towards them and demanding to have a kiss himself.

“I’m eating,” Athos answers drily, licking his fingers clean. D’Artagnan suddenly finds himself fascinated by the motion, and Athos’ mouth rises at the corners when he notices, the _bastard_. When he moves his eyes, however, Aramis is staring at him, a silent question in his expression, almost asking for permission.

D’Artagnan gulps down, heart hammering in his chest, but he _wants_ this, he _achingly_ wants it, so he nods briefly.

“Yep,” is all he can say, and Aramis surges up on his knees, brings his hands to rest on d’Artagnan’s thighs and then waits a second, his breath hot on d’Artagnan’s mouth. Their noses bump, and then their lips meet.

It’s a different kiss than Athos’, d’Artagnan muses in that part of his brain that isn’t occupied with nibbling at Aramis’ lower lip, it’s slower and more sensual, full of promises of _many_ pleasurable things, especially when his hands are stroking on his thighs like this and he’s softly sighing in his mouth -- but it’s just as _good_ and if it hadn’t been for Porthos meaningfully clearing his throat, he would _never_ have stopped.

“Sorry,” Aramis says, sliding off d’Artagnan, not looking sorry at all, but terribly satisfied and smug. “I got carried away.”

D’Artagnan immediately goes for the quiche, both because he _is_ still hungry, but also to pull himself together.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. _If this is what a simple kiss feels like..._

 

* * *

 

 

“Was the dinner nice?” Porthos, once they’re both in his car to ride d’Artagnan home. They’d offered him a guest room for the night, but he’d declined, not entirely comfortable with sleeping out yet. Aramis and Athos have stayed behind, for some reason, but d’Artagnan is honestly grateful for: he needs some time alone, without either of them to remind him how _good_ kissing them felt like.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, nodding enthusiastically, “of _course_ it was.”

The car , an old, battered, well-used brand that d’Artagnan can’t even recognise, coughs a couple of times but ultimately starts, the plastic rainbow pride sign attached to the rear-view mirror trembling dangerously.

“Yeah,” Porthos says with a large, teasing grin, “you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“I didn’t overstep, did I?”

“Nah,” Porthos simply replies, “it’s all good, sweet. They’re good, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, throat suddenly tight, body hot all over. Porthos shoots him an amused, knowing look, and he affirms:

“Yeah. That’s what it was like for me, too.”

What d’Artagnan doesn’t say, but he hopes -- he _knows_ \-- Porthos is smart enough to read through him, is that he would _really_ like to know what it feels like to kiss _him_.

But, for the rest of the ride until they reach d’Artagnan’s apartment, they stay in a comfortable silence, only commenting from time to time about the dinner, about their plans for the rest of the week. It’s such an informal, relaxed ambience that really, d’Artagnan honestly has _absolutely no idea_ how they went from talking about school memories to making out, d’Artagnan sitting on Porthos’ lap, sighing into the kiss, sucking on his tongue and almost grinding himself on his thighs -- while Porthos’ thumb is hooked on the front of his trousers and his other hand dragging along his lower back, almost on his ass.

“Shit,” he groans once they part to catch breath. They’re both panting and Porthos’ pupils are blown. D’Artagnan is still sitting on Porthos’ lap, and his hands are on the man’s biceps, holding so tightly he’s afraid he’s left a mark. He lets go, slowly, and ducks forward to kiss him again in apology.

“Yeah,” is the answer, “I know.”

“I need to go,” d’Artagnan whispers, resting his forehead against Porthos who, for all answer, cups his jaw and kisses him again, licking inside his mouth. “I need to go,” d’Artagnan says again, words muffled against Porthos’ lips and after one last, long, mind-blowing slow drag of his tongue, Porthos lets him go.

He walks him to the door, but doesn’t linger too much, thankfully, probably in order to avoid the awkward _‘I would invite you in but’_ moment that usually follows a making-out session. He does kiss d’Artagnan goodnight, though, and it’s sweet and chaste, and tells him he hopes they’ll meet soon, and then he leaves with a wave of his hand.

D’Artagnan goes straight to bed, too emotionally and physically exhausted to overthink about the evening, and it’s with a dawning sense of clarity and happiness that he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I didn't mean them to kiss so early but I guess being Gay And Touchstarved myself, I couldn't let them pine after each other for too long.  
> I hope you enjoyed this??


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly Valentine's Day is nothing but an excuse for me to indugle in writing sappy, cute chapters that have absolutely No Plot but, instead of that, lots of fluff and kisses.

His sisters' reactions, when d'Artagnan announced them the good news, is pretty much the best description he would give if someone asked him how their personalities are.

Inès, the eldest, wisest but most nurturing of his three sisters, had smiled at him through the grainy Skype image and then, for no reason, had started crying and sobbing pitifully. Through choked tears she had managed to say that _‘she had seen him so taken over by grief about Dad’s death’_ and _‘that he was finally smiling after not doing so for such a long time it had seemed like he would never smile again’_ and _‘even though the arrangement was quite unusual, as long as he was happy with them, she would be as well’_ and _‘she was so glad he had finally arranged everything’_. Inès would have probably kept on crying for even longer than she usually did, if her children hadn’t barged in and demanded to have a turn with the phone.

Geneviève, the youngest of his sisters and the cheekiest, the one d’Artagnan gets along with the best, stared at him and, tongue-in-cheek, had asked:

“What, the three at the same time?”

And before he could answer, a mocking but somehow fond smirk on her lips, she had added:

“Aw, our little d’Artagnan is growing up! He’s having orgies now!”

The remark had gotten her a slap on the back of the head by Aimée, the middle-child, and a well-deserved insult from d’Artagnan. She had smiled, then, and had asked a whole lot of questions, which he had answered quite readily.

Aimée, other than hitting Geneviève, hadn’t done much, except smiling as widely as she could whenever her eyes met d’Artagnan’s. She never spoke much, but from her dimmed eyes and quivering lips, he knew she was delighted for him -- and too overwhelmed by happiness to be able to speak. She was the most empathetic of them, she had always been, and she was the one who had had the heaviest toll from their father’s death: she had to cope with her own grief, and at the same time deal with her siblings’ pain, and sometimes d’Artagnan was afraid the anguish was so strong that Aimée would wield and be over overcome by it. But Aimée was also the strongest, and she was the tie that kept them all together.

Constance and Anne, on the other hand, had insisted on celebrating.

So now he is bundled up on their couch, Constance resting her head on Anne’s lap, her fiancée’s fingers carding through her hair, and her feet are on d’Artagnan’s knees. She watches him intently as he recounts the last date and, from time to time, exchanges an amused look with Anne, who has been smiling the whole evening.

“And they were _so_ charming, Constance, you have _no_ idea!” he says, perfectly aware that he sounds like an over-excited sixteen-year-old dealing with his first date but unwilling to do anything about it. “They basically did everything they could to make me feel at ease, and _honestly,_ everything was absolutely perfect and I don’t even know why I was so confused and afraid! I mean yes, things won’t be always as smooth as this, but we’re _adults_. And we kissed _so much_ , you can’t even imagine how _good_ it was and I just --” he stops, catches his breath and Constance giggles, kicking him gently with her bare feet. He grasps them, as a reflex, and holds them between his own hands, not even aware of what he’s doing -- “they were absolutely lovely, and I really, _really_ can’t wait to meet them again.”

“It’s not too much, is it?” Anne manages to say, once d’Artagnan is too out of breath to talk. She seems happy, genuinely happy, in her quiet, warm way. She may not say much, but she radiates her feelings, showing them in little gestures of affection -- a caress on the back of d’Artagnan’s head, a kiss on Constance’s cheek, a murmured endearment in her hair. It’s not crowding, leaves d’Artagnan space for his _own_ happiness, but it is enough.

D’Artagnan stops for a second. He knows that his… relationship with Athos, Porthos and Aramis is unconventional, dangerous almost, and he knows eventually he will have to think like an adult and life will get in the way and things won’t be as _perfect_ as they are now, but he can think of it later and, for now, he just wants to enjoy the happiness he has _longed_ for for so long after his father died.

So he takes a breath, calms down a second, reflects on what he is about to say, and then answers Anne’s question:

“It isn’t. I know it’s a lot. I can see it. But it’s not _too much_.”

Anne nods, thoughtfully, and Constance raises up from where she’s sprawled to clumsily kiss her on the chin, and then on the lips.

“He’ll be fine,” she says with a grin, “they know us well enough not to do anything that might hurt him.”

Anne smiles briefly, and then shakes her head, her hair falling from the bun all over her shoulders. It looks soft, and Constance, of course, immediately requests that they switch positions so that she can braid it, so d’Artagnan finds himself with Anne’s legs on his own.

He doesn’t mind.

He’s too busy thinking about kissing, again.

 

* * *

 

Their Third Date, and officially Second Romantic Date, happens on a Friday afternoon. D’Artagnan pushes open the door of the bookshop, knowing he will find either Athos or Porthos because Aramis works every Friday so he’s never there, Athos usually takes it as a day off and either spends it at the bookshop or at home, and Porthos just seems not to have a fixed schedule. Either way, he’ll get kisses. Lots of them, hopefully.

“Hi, sweet,” Porthos says as soon as d’Artagnan’s inside, a blinding grin spreading on his face. There’s a couple of customers, for once, but they don’t seem to need any help, just wandering about like any reader does when left to themselves in a secondhand bookshop.

“Is that an onion?” one of them, a 30-something-years old woman, asks, pointing to Bert, the onion that, for some reason, the three men have been growing in a pot.

“Yep,” Porthos says. “We’re also growing garlic, in the other room, but we haven’t brought any here, because it smells.”

The woman tilts her head to the right, curious, but doesn’t ask anything else. D’Artagnan cackles lowly, and waits until she has her back to them to let his backpack fall to the ground, lean over the counter, grab Porthos by the lapels of his shirt and kiss him right on the mouth. Porthos grins against his lips and mouths something that seems like _‘glad to see you too’._

The woman ends up buying a cheap edition of _The Martian Chronicles_ and Porthos slips the book in a paper bag with an approving hum. The other customers leave shortly after, and, _finally_ , d’Artagnan gets kisses.

“I thought you had uni,” Porthos says against his lips when, some time after, d’Artagnan is perched on the counter, the other man’s hands on his lower back. Their kiss is deep enough to be languid, but not so heated that they have lost the sense of propriety. After all, they _are_ in a public library.

D’Artagnan leans over to catch Porthos’ lips in another kiss, this time shorter and definitely more chaste.

“Teacher called in sick,” he says, between a smooch and another, “thought I might come here and bother you. Brought my books so I can study anyways.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Porthos chuckles, taking a step back to cup d’Artagnan’s face. He stares at him for a second, then leans over and, so sweetly it’s almost overwhelming, kisses him on the cheek, his beard grazing d’Artagnan’s skin. “You’re a darlin’,” he says, and d’Artagnan would blush, if he weren’t occupied with hiding his face in the crook of Porthos’ shoulder and wheezing like a lost whale. He still does blush, but at least Porthos can’t see him.

He laughs, warm and gruff as always, and then pats him on the thigh.

“How’s Constance?” he asks then, leaning on his forearms, still between d’Artagnan’s legs.

“She’s a sweetheart, as always,” d’Artagnan answers, trying his best _not_ to lean into the feeling of Porthos’ warm chest so close to his own.

“Yeah?” the man says with a grin. “D’you know when she’s comin’ to visit us with Anne?”

D’Artagnan shrugs.

“She’s busy being happy, in love and planning her wedding, I suppose,” he says, giving in to temptation and hooking one arm around Porthos’ waist, bringing their chests together. He stares at him for a second, and then kisses him again. “Nice,” he says, and Porthos purrs in agreement, apparently ready to add something when, suddenly, the door opens with a jingle.

D’Artagnan immediately freezes, hoping to _God_ it isn’t a customer, but Porthos is smiling, staring with a lazy, comfortable smile at someone over his shoulder, so he turns around and relief washes over him.

It’s Athos, watching them with a raised eyebrow and a light smile on his lips.

“Hello,” d’Artagnan says, stretching his hand, curling it around Athos’ wrist when this latter crosses the room in four quick steps and bending his head to kiss him, too. Athos hums, appreciating the gesture, and then kisses Porthos, as well, who murmurs his own greeting in his hair.

“Thought you’d spend the day outside,” the dark-skinned man says, bringing his hand to brush a speck of dust off Athos’ cheek and then resting it there, their lips brushing again.

“I changed my mind, thank God,” Athos answers, using his Posh Voice, and d’Artagnan grins, delighted, knowing that he will likely _not_ study today.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in like. 6 weeks.   
> but life has been getting in the way and for some time I lost all the inspiration I had left but! I'm going to recover it soon!   
> Also the chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but I wanted to post it anyways because better this than nothing at all.

“I’m  _ trying _ ,” he hisses, shaking Porthos’ hand off his shoulder, getting more irritated and frustrated with each passing second. 

“You’re tryin’ wrong,” Porthos points out and d’Artagnan grits his teeth, knowing he cannot argue against that, but still wanting to punch something. He's not going to, of course, but _still_. “You shouldn’t have put flour in it.”

“Why would you put flour in risotto?” Aramis asks from where he’s sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and one of the neighbour’s kitten (who’s sneaked in again from the balcony) in his lap.

“I put too much water at first and I was afraid it would overcook and still be liquidish, so I put flour because that’s what you usually do if something is too watery,” d’Artagnan explains, poking at the greyish lump that’s bobbling on the fire. The risotto sticks to the wooden spoon and d’Artagnan shoots Porthos a desperate look. The man merely raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Now it looks weirdly grey. And it’s harder than it should be.”

“Never heard that before. Usually, the harder it is, the better,” Aramis comments, barely holding back his laughter, and d’Artagnan and Porthos both groan in unison. 

“You’re disgustin’, babe,” Porthos says, everything but disgust in his voice. It sounds a lot more like fondness.

“I really don’t know what you were expecting, honestly. Have I ever lived a day without making a dick joke?”

“It’s true,” Porthos answers, huffing. “You were makin’ dick jokes while we were hookin’ up the first time. It was terrible. Worst sex I ever had.”

“And yet you sticked,” Aramis says, a smug grin plastered on his face. “I think the risotto is burning up, sweetheart.”

“ _ Shit _ .” d’Artagnan shouts, turning off the heat and planting the wooden spoon right in the middle of the pot, in what should be risotto but is in fact a grey-and-brown blob. He already hates it, and the smell of burnt rice lingers in the air for a while, before Porthos finally opens the window a little bit. D'Artagnan stands in front of the pot, staring at it sourly, more disappointed than angry, now. "It's your fault," he grumbles, gently shaking off Porthos' arm from his waist. He doesn't actually mind the contact, he's simply too proud to admit he wants a hug.

“How are you culinary incapacities our fault?” Aramis asks, faking offence. The kitten mewls loudly and  Aramis goes back to scratching its belly, doing baby-talk to him.

“You were distracting me with all this sappy, sexy talk,” d’Artagnan mumbles, knowing he’s just making up excuses, but unable to admit his own fault. It's good they know that he isn't actually being childishly proud, though, he's just trying to feel a little bit better about burning fucking _risotto_. 

Porthos coos and suddenly hugs him from behind, kissing him loudly on the neck and then on the temple, and d’Artagnan instantly goes limp in his arms.

“Better?” Porthos asks, resting his cheek against d’Artagnan’s, his arms still hooked around his waist. 

“My risotto looks terrible.”

“It does. D’you think we should feed it to the cat?”

Aramis gasps and then hisses, strangely sounding  _ exactly  _ like the kitten that’s fidgeting in his arms. Porthos cackles and d’Artagnan, as he feels Porthos’ chest rumbling in laughter against his back, smiles along, feeling a little bit better.

The thing is, he is having a weird day. It’s one of those usual weird days where nothing particularly bad has happened, and yet he’s felt wretched and tired and overwhelmed for the biggest part of his afternoon.

He went to his apartment after uni, stood there in the threshold, his backpack still slouched over his shoulder, throat tightening and eyes strangely blurry, his heart sinking into his stomach because, just before he opened the door, he thought he had heard a sound coming from inside, something that had seemed familiar and distant altogether -- and for one moment, for one  _ agonizingly  _ long moment, a crazy, painfully crazy hope had shot right through him, that he might open the door and see his dad inside. 

But of course, there was nobody, which is why he was miserable for hours, before giving in to temptation and ringing to Athos’ apartment, knowing that at least one out of three would be there. The perks of being polyamorous.

Porthos had opened the door, taken one quick look at his face and then had shoved him inside, declaring he needed a distraction and deciding it was time for d’Artagnan to learn how to cook, so that he could make his own quiches instead of lurking around in their apartment whenever he got the craving of it. Of course, it went unsaid that he would  _still_  be eating Porthos' quiches, whether he would actually learn how to make them or not.

They had ended up doing quiches, crêpes and then the infamous risotto. 

All the while Porthos had chatted him up, asking about school and about Constance and talking about movies and books and, when he didn’t have anything else to rant about, he had started singing. Bit by bit, step by step, d’Artagnan had started feeling slightly better, forgetting for minutes at an end the reason _why_ he had ended up here -- except to be harshly drawn back to reality by a detail, a word, a story or -- even simply the sight of one of Athos’ books forgotten on the kitchen table -- that would bring back the thought of his father, sometimes even if the trigger was completely unrelated to him.  

The mind likes to play games, twisting itself and finding ways to hurt us, Porthos had explained softly when d’Artagnan suddenly had started crying, holding an egg in his right hand and resting his left one on the counter for support, physical _and_ moral, back quivering with the force of his sobs. D’Artagnan had shaken his head, and Porthos had brought a hand against his back, leaving it there. 

“I know what you’re goin’ through,” he had said, gentle as ever, kind like only he could be, “but it’s gonna get better. It’s gonna take its sweet time and it’s gonna feel like it’s neverendin’, and in a certain way it  _ is _ , but the ache’s gonna fade. I promise it is.”

Then he had taken d'Artagnan's hand into his own, big and brown compared to d'Artagnan's, he had wiped off the smashed egg -- d'Artagnan hadn't even noticed it was broken -- and, more than anything else, it was that gesture in particular that for some reason had made d'Artagnan's heart clench with affection and pure gratitute -- that gesture of love and caretaking. Even now that he was still sobbing, eyes puffy and red, nose running, Porthos was still helping him out, still cradling him.

And then Aramis had barged in, then, bringing along with the kitten his cheekiness and his mirth and his liveliness -- and the ache had faded, for one brief moment, but enough to give him some respite.

And that’s how they’ve ended up here, Aramis on the floor, d’Artagnan at the stove, Porthos trying to teach him the basis of cooking and Athos somewhere outside, probably on his way home, not expecting to find the stink of burnt rice all over his apartment. D’Artagnan would feel guilty, if he didn’t know that Athos is actually going to be secretly delighted to have all of them gathered in one place.

Except for the cat, probably.

 

“I do not understand,” is the first thing Athos says, when he finds the three of them sitting cross-legged in circle, on the floor, a tray of everything (two plates of crêpes, three small-sized quiches, one chocolate fudge cake and, finally, one fruit pie) that Porthos and d’Artagnan have cooked resting in the middle. 

“What?” Aramis asks. “It’s called binge-cooking.”

“It isn’t the food that concerns me,” Athos replies, slowly sitting himself amongst them, wincing as if his back hurts -- it's probably been a tough day for him, too -- “it is the fact that we have a perfectly comfortable couch, which cost me more than I’d like to admit, and yet none of us is actually using it.”

“We’re all queer,” Aramis quips back, immediately going to rest his head on Athos’ lap, “I really don’t know why you were expecting otherwise.” 

Athos smiles that small, fond smile of his -- the one d’Artagnan sees on his face whenever one of them does something stupidly endearing. 

He ducks down his head and his mouth brushes’ Aramis’ hair, and then Athos sneezes. Once. And then twice again. 

“Oh,” Aramis says. “You  _ really  _ are allergic to cats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Risotto Incident is drawn from a real life experience btw


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOF, okay, i can't believe this is over??? i'm crying.

It becomes a sort of routine, after that. 

They meet every other day, whether it’s for the whole evening or even just the time for a kiss and a hello -- but he’s never alone. He’s got Constance, Anne, his sisters, his boyfriends (yes, it’s official, thank you very much), his classmates and friends at uni, so he’s never alone. Never have been, really. It just feels different, having Athos, Porthos and Aramis with him.

There are moments when d’Artagnan’s grief is so intense he can barely bring himself to get up and he simply shuts his brain off, there are moments it is so unbelievably painful he cannot even imagine his father dead, the image of his lifeless body simply not coming to his mind, there are moments he can cope with it so easily he thinks  _ this is it, it’s over  _ \-- and, all the time, even when he wakes up at 4 AM because he heard a voice, even when he cries himself to sleep, even when he brings out the family pictures and doesn’t shed a tear, they’re still with him, all of them.

Which is what worries him, truth be told.

“I’m sorry I spend so much time sulking around,” he says one day when it’s only him and Aramis at the bookshop. 

“You’re grieving,” Aramis says, simple as that. He smiles, handing him a book. “That one goes in the Shitty Books Section,” he says.

D’Artagnan looks at the cover.

“It’s Guillaume Musso,” he says. “Shouldn’t it go in the Contemporary Lit Section?”

“Athos says it goes in the Shitty Books Section,” Aramis answers, shrugging. “I’ve stopped trying to understand his method of classifying books ages ago. Anyways, as I said, you’re grieving. When Adèle died, I couldn’t stop crying for days at end. I’d just wake up, cry and go back to sleep again. When his foster mum died, Porthos cried the first day and told us he had moved on, except that one week later I found him sobbing on the floor because he had suddenly remembered he hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to her. It’s been seventeen years, he still cries about it.”

D’Artagnan looks at him, puzzled. He knows all that. He’s had to comfort Porthos himself, once, and they’d both ended up comforting each other.

“What I mean,” Aramis explains with a smile, “is that you shouldn’t apologise for feeling things. You loved your dad, right?”

“He was the light of my life,” d’Artagnan answers, and he can’t help the quiver in his voice.

“Exactly.”

“I mean --” d’Artagnan says, struggling to find the right words, getting frustrated -- “What I mean is that… it’s just, I don’t want to be a  _ reminder _ , you know? I don’t want to come home and be all like  _ ‘hey here look at me, my dad died, come and be sad with me’ _ , you know? I don’t want to be a constant reminder of what we all went through. This is not what this thing, this whole --” he gestures wildly, stomps on the floor -- “this whole relationship is. It’s not  _ ‘sad boy meets people who were sad and they bond over that' _  it’s  _ ‘boy who happens to be sad meets three people, falls in love and finds happiness _ _’_. __ And I just feel like that’s all I have been at the time, being the mopey, sad love-interest. I don’t want this to be a teenage love story  _ The Fault in Our Stars _ style, where our past is what unites us. Does that make sense?”

Aramis just stares at him, with a cheeky smile on his lips.

“So you’re in love, huh?” he says, and his voice cracks with laughter. It would sound mocking, if d’Artagnan didn’t know him better. 

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles. 

Aramis laughs again, wild and free like he always is, and swoops him in for a breathtaking kiss.

“You’re being paranoid again,” he says, cupping his jaws, “you’re grieving, you’re feeling things. You can’t help it. The whole point of a relationship is being there for each other, you dork. And excuse me, we are all  _ so  _ much hotter than Ansel Elgort!”

 

It keeps gnawing at him, though. A constant thought, always checking himself to make sure he’s not being too mopey, to make sure he’s always cheerful, happy, a smile on his face even when all he wants to do is bury himself in his dad’s old clothes.

He doesn’t play it well, obviously. It’s painfully clear that he’s in pain, or so he feels. He’s afraid of ruining the evenings, though, but the only time he tried postponing one of their dates because he was far too sad, the three men swamped him with concerned texts and calls.

So that’s not an option, unless he wants them to freak out, which is why he’s sitting with them on the couch, Athos’ head on his lap and Aramis checking out their impressive collection of nail-polish, while Porthos does something on his phone.

“I can literally hear the whirring of your brain, d’Artagnan,” Athos says in his usual draw, moving his head so that he can look at him properly.

“Wrong use of the word literally,” Aramis quips and three equally frustrated groans echo in the room. He cackles, perfectly aware that his  _ The Fault in Our Stars  _ references and semi-quotes are driving everyone mad. 

“Seriously,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan gulps in front of those deep, concerned, loving eyes. “What’s the matter?”

D’Artagnan doesn’t answer, shakes his head. His throat is too tight, he knows if he speaks, his voice is gonna crack.

“You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?” Aramis then says, tone slightly accusatory. 

“No,” d’Artagnan lies. His voice breaks.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout what?” Porthos then asks, raising his head from his phone, looking in turn at the other three.

“D’Artagnan here, who just lost his father, is afraid he’s being too sad and depressing, and that him grieving is going to ruin our fun,” Aramis explains, as if d’Artagnan is being an unreasonable, but overall endearing, child. It would offend him to his core, but at least that saves him from giving any explanation.

Porthos gives him a look. 

“You idiot,” he says.

D’Artagnan starts crying.

 

It becomes easier after that, sort of. Not having to rein his emotions in makes the whole process of dealing with grief a bit easier. Not that the pain fades, obviously, it’s still there -- but he’s found that he can cry and laugh about his dad all at the same time, and while that seems ridiculous, it’s actually helpful.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis do everything they can to distract him, whether it’s with movies (and yes, Aramis absolutely insists that they watch  _ The Fault in Our Stars _ one last time), with books, with long, quiet conversations whispered in the night, with food and, last but not least, with sex.

It’s a win-win situation, really, they all get good food, good movies, mind-blowing orgasms, and weird, drunken conversations that would make absolutely no sense to anyone who isn't them (not that they make any sense once they’re sober, obviously, but still. He cherishes all of those strange inside jokes).

They’re the “dream quadruple”, as Geneviève calls them. 

They should create a whole Instagram page dedicated to them,  Aimée says. 

They should be on the front-page of every single wedding-planner’s blog, Constance, the traitor, adds, high-fiving Aimée. 

They should adopt a puppy, Inès, bastard, quips in. 

They should post the screenshots of their group-chat conversations, Anne says, with a wickedly innocent smile.

Which is exactly what they do.


End file.
